Canada: the Yukon on horseback

Determined to show her young daughter a landscape inaccessible by car or
plane, Louise Carpenter learnt to ride and set off on an expedition
to the wild tundra and forest of the Yukon in Canada, a barely populated
region of nearly 200,000 square miles

Louise and Dolly Carpenter and three of their fellow expedition members journey from Rose Lake to Big Ben Cabin on the eighth day
of their tripPhoto: Grant Harder

By Louise Carpenter

8:00AM GMT 09 Feb 2014

I am – or rather I was – that sad urban mother living in the countryside and bored by horses. I’ve never liked their stamping hooves or their flared nostrils, or the way horseboxes trundle down lanes holding up traffic. How then did I end up in a family that feels the horse-love in its bones? My in-laws hunted, competed and taught, and now my own children ride. Dolly, my eldest and keenest, has been trying to get me in the saddle for years with no success. I once got on and fell off the other side, but we don’t talk about that.

It took the prospect of an adventure of a lifetime to get me to try again: a trip to the Yukon, almost 200,000 square miles of largely unpopulated Canadian tundra and forest on the border with Alaska, which would be virtually impossible to see properly in any other way. If I could master the riding, Dolly and I would be part of an expedition of six riders, four packhorses, one guide and a helper. I liked the sound of this challenge, but more than anything I loved the idea of giving Dolly, nine, an experience she would remember for the rest of her life.

The expedition would involve long days crossing an often punishing landscape that tells the story of exploding volcanoes, grinding glaciers, immense inland seas and millions of years of mountain building. There would be no loos, no running water, no hospitals and no method of communication with the rest of the world except our French-Canadian guide’s one emergency satellite phone. Our food would be carried on packhorses and we would sleep in small, basic tents that we would pitch ourselves at the end of each day. At night temperatures would drop to zero. Days could be up to 27C. Then there would be the wildlife: woodland caribou, mule deer, lynx, wolverines, coyotes, wolves, 224 species of birds and more than 1,500 species of insects; plus about 1,200 species of plants. There could also be what is probably the most exciting and dangerous Yukon species of all – the grizzly bear.

Dolly would be the youngest child ever to have joined the expedition. In fact only one child, aged 10, had done it before, and she rode for three days. We would be riding for eight. Was I mad to even consider it? It often felt that way. But as I prepared with weekly lessons, slowly growing in confidence, I began to fall in love with riding, too. Corny and neat, but true.

I am not one of those naturally adventurous parents who seek to build character through adversity. I asked many questions of myself and our expedition organiser, Unicorn Trails, a respected, safety-conscious company specialising in rides around the world: Would my riding be good enough? Would Dolly’s riding be good enough? Would she be able to cope with being in the saddle for up to eight hours a day? Would her age ruin the expedition for the four other riders? How would we get to hospital if something went wrong?

As it turned out, I saw my daughter grow in confidence and subtly change in ways I could never have imagined. If the idea of the trip was togetherness, an equal joy was to let go so she could become an independent, popular, working member of the expedition. Here is the diary I kept of our journey.

Day one, July 6

By the time we arrive at our guide, Pierre Fournier’s, log cabin on a five-acre ranch six miles outside Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon, Dolly and I have been travelling for 22 hours. The Yukon itself is twice the size of Britain, bordered by British Columbia to the south, Alaska to the west, the Northwest Territories to the east and the Arctic Ocean to the north.

There is brilliant sunshine outside although it is already 8pm, and it will stay like this all night. The cabin is like something from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Dolly loves it – along with the smelly hole-in-the-ground sawdust lavatory hut, which she declares to be ‘awesome’. I’m not so keen. Over the coming days I’ll remember that loo as luxury.

Party food is laid out for us and the other riders to snack on while we mingle. There is Frances, a London-based consultant psychiatrist, Peter, a hill farmer from the Highlands, and David, a retired research scientist; Patricia, a physiotherapist from Marseille, has been delayed and will arrive tomorrow. None of us really want a party sausage, but Dolly tucks in, hoovering up Hula Hoops, unable to believe her luck. She chatters away to the others. There’s nothing like a child high on excitement and E-numbers to break the ice. I have no idea at this point that our fellow riders will come to feel like family.

Pierre is thin and craggy, with leathery brown skin and sunken cheeks. He has a cigarette permanently hanging from his lips. His hands are big and worn down by years of horse ropes and husky dogs. There is dirt and nicotine on his fingers. He looks like Willem Dafoe and talks with a French accent. He is riveting. There are 30 husky dogs barking away out at the back of the ranch, and we can hear cowbells, worn by the ranch horses, jangling. These big heavy bells are Pierre’s alarm system against bears. We will be relying on the horses’ senses to know if danger is approaching; their bells will start clanging wildly and Pierre will wake up. It sounds a bit, well, basic. ‘Do you have a gun?’ I ask. ‘No,’ he says. ‘If you carry a gun, you are gonna shoot something.’

It is our first glimpse of Pierre’s extraordinary respect for the wildlife and the landscape. As an assistant trapper he catches and kills wolves, wolverines, lynx and caribou, but under strict government guidelines. Shooting a bear on an expedition is a heinous act. We will carry bear spray, but only as a final resort. Pierre draws the day to a close. Dolly and I climb on to a thin mattress, which we share with Frances. The men sleep in another, more basic cabin behind.

Day two

Today is spent on the ranch getting to know our horses and the drills that will be required of us. It is a lot to take in. Pierre demonstrates how he wants us to tack up, how he likes the saddlebags to be knotted, how the blankets must lie and how the saddles must be stored at night. We are told to keep our horses away from the packhorses, which we will soon discover to be the unreliable bad boys of our trip. They are Pierre’s responsibility.

We go out for our first ride in the wilderness around the ranch to get used to the western saddles and so Pierre can check our riding skills. We will ride in single file and Pierre decides that Dolly will stay behind me – so she can see me – but in front of David, a highly experienced rider who will keep an eye on her technique. I feel oddly confident although these horses are not the pony-school press-button type we’re used to. Dolly’s confidence surprises both David and Pierre. Mosquitoes and jet lag are our main problems. It is hot. Dolly refuses to wear her mosquito head net. Her call; I’ve decided to take a hands-off approach. As long as she is safe, she can make her own choices and bear the consequences. (Suncream and repellent are non-negotiable.)

We sleep in the afternoon and barbecue in the evening. Phoning home, we hear that Andy Murray has won Wimbledon. Everybody cheers. We are starting to relax with each other.

Day three

We wake to the news that the horses are gone. All 15 have bolted off after kicking down the ranch fencing. This sounds like very bad news to me, given that the expedition is due to leave this morning, but Pierre seems only mildly worried. Later I will realise that this is what makes a good guide, the ability not to panic, or perhaps the ability to hide that you are panicking. He goes looking for them in his car.

Camping on the shore of Rose Lake. Photo: Grant Harder

Pierre tells us that four of the runaway horses are replacement packhorses for others that got away earlier in the summer and haven’t been found. These horses were what he calls ‘green’ when he got them, and he hasn’t had them long. Each packhorse will carry two 20kg bags of food, clothes and camping equipment. Yesterday Pierre showed us how he weighs the bags on portable electronic scales to ensure he doesn’t exceed this. They are tied together, nose to tail. It seems hard work for a horse. I can’t help thinking it’s no wonder they ran off.

The horses are eventually found and brought back, and towards the end of the afternoon we leave the ranch, headed for Bonneville Lake. The packhorses are difficult from the start, but Pierre is tough. I try to appear breezy so Dolly doesn’t get anxious. I’ll do this quite a bit over the coming week and keeping it up is emotionally exhausting.

For three and a half hours we follow the trails forged by wild animals, travelling over a mountainous pass, through dense forest, into the alpine countryside and high up the side of a mountain. It is raining when we arrive at our camp, and there is work to do. Tents have to go up; a fire has to be built; the horses have to be untacked and tied near grass and water; and the food has to be cooked on the fire. The work is divided up. We are all a bit subdued but nobody complains, including Dolly. She helps to gather wood and build the fire while I struggle with a tent. It’s a bonding moment for us all. We are beginning to get on tremendously well. We eat a pasta supper at 10pm and go to bed, oblivious to the whitest of nights.

Day four

It feels freezing. Pierre is tacking up the horses. Dolly and I are each holding a roll of loo paper in a plastic sandwich bag. Pierre handed them out yesterday. Bodily functions are performed in the bushes. If you don’t want to be seen, you walk further away – or choose a bigger bush. I can’t help envying Dolly for being a child, not yet burdened by embarrassment.

Throughout the night wind howled around our tent. I tried to keep Dolly warm but her eyes filled with tears. ‘I want to go home.’ I anticipated these words, but so soon? I tried to jolly her. She was hungry – our body clocks are haywire. Children can’t wait for food as adults can. We stole biscuits from the food supply, kept away from the tents because of the threat of bears, and she was laughing again.

Today we ride over Marmot Pass, heading for Ibex Lake. Eagles swoop above us and I hear Dolly whoop when she spots the antlers of a caribou in the distance. We are at 4,920 feet and there is still snow on the ground here and there. The tundra is breathtaking. We are travelling towards the coastal mountains of Alaska, and the landscape is like that of the Highlands, except there are no roads or people. This land would not be accessible in any other way, except perhaps by foot. The very steep descent on dry, sandy land is hairy – I’m at my technical limit. David is watching over Dolly, who has had trouble with her boisterous pony.

With our tents pitched by a still pond, Dolly runs barefoot to the water’s edge with Frances. Using Frances’ binoculars they find a ptarmigan and her chicks, and they identify a breed Dolly names the ‘Frances Duck’. Thanks to the campfire, the vista and the birdsong, I’m hit by a wave of happiness and freedom.

Day five

We’re all switching horses. The terrain ahead is too difficult for Dolly to stay on her erratic pony. Dolly is having my horse and I’m having Peter’s, a huge black beast called Arkan whose massive saddle bruises me all the way down my inner thighs. Still, he feels solid and safe, particularly as we cross water – a first for Dolly and me – and a lot of boggy land. When we jump streams or wade through boggy ground, the horses’ legs sink alarmingly low. Dolly travels with Pierre on his horse on this terrain, a precaution I’m glad of. He is constantly aware that he has a child with him, and because of that I feel better about her safety.

I hear David giving Dolly a geography lesson behind me. ‘Eskers are long, winding ridges of sand and gravel deposited by a stream flowing in or under a decaying glacier.’ ‘Really? Wow!’ ‘A drumlin is an elongated hill in the shape of an inverted spoon or half-buried egg formed by glacial ice acting on underlying glacial debris.’ She listens intently, and the horses run gleefully. ‘Keep her close,’ Pierre shouts to David. Frances is thrown off into the bracken. Peter’s horse rolls with him on it. Then all the horses begin to roll. Pierre shouts to get Dolly off before hers tips. She’s shaken. Arkan rolls but I get my leg out of the stirrup in time.

At lunch we pick up four wild horses that come charging towards us, manes flying in the wind. It’s like something out of a film. They threaten to disrupt the equilibrium of our group, though. They nudge and annoy the packhorses, trying to budge into the established pecking order. There is nothing we can do.

It is raining again, which brings out the mosquitoes. My knee is throbbing. It’s three times its normal size, an allergic reaction to multiple bites. I can’t keep it in the stirrup, which makes control difficult on steep declines. We are running hideously behind schedule. We have been hours and hours in the saddle, and Pierre doesn’t yet know how we will cover the ground necessary to get to Rose Lake to meet the floatplane bringing us supplies of food and water the day after tomorrow. We are mournful during our bonfire supper, but we have real mettle and similar temperaments – not a display of queeniness from any of us – and vote to ride on until about 10pm to make up time.

Day six

Pierre has found a way of getting us to Rose Lake in time for supper. When I ask him how he gives me a ravaged grin. He is actually looking even more ravaged than before, like he is a creature of the forest himself. He doesn’t seem to have eaten for the whole trip, has barely slept, is absolutely filthy (as are all of us), and has run out of his cigarettes. He is a mysterious man, but a reassuring one.

It is striking how emotions and conditions can veer between extremes in a short space of time: from despair to elation, from shivering rain to brilliant sunshine. Today is wet and cold, and Dolly’s physical discomfort becomes focused on an invented worry about the wild horses kicking and biting her horse. Frances, being a psychiatrist, tells me I’ve got to shut the anxiety down before it takes a grip and holds us up. I’m firm with Dolly. ‘We’ll take away your biscuit!’ Frances shouts. ‘No hot chocolate for you!’ Dolly starts laughing. She adores Frances.

From left Dolly, Louise and Frances swimming in Rose Lake on the seventh day. Photo: Grant Harder

I hate riding through alpine forests. I hate the branches that threaten to knock off our hats as the horses charge through the bracken. The back of Peter’s jacket is ripped off. Frances and I are unable to stop laughing. Poor Peter, with no coat and two hysterical women behind him.

The coastal mountains rise to the south-east and the land is pocketed with lakes created by beaver dams. The rain tips down and we ride through apocalyptic scenes of burnt-out forests. By 6pm we are making the steep descent down to Rose Lake. By now I can barely ride, but when we reach the lake, we are speechless. It is beautiful. I want to weep with exhaustion and elation. We pitch our tent on the shore. I kick away moose dung. Pierre sleeps for hours. You can feel the relief like a halo around him.

Day seven

The sun is shining, which feels like a reward from the gods. The ice is melting on the tops of the coastal mountains in the distance. There is no riding today, and we are happy. Pierre shows us the hunters’ cabins of long ago, now owned by the government. The hunters’ names are carved into the beams. One has written, no base like base camp/no cook like dora.

It is a powerful moment, as if we are rediscovering the frontier. We walk to the shore of Rose Lake where there is a landing strip for the floatplane. Food, alcohol and Pierre’s cigarettes are unloaded. I have never been so filthy in all my life. I’ve given up trying to brush Dolly’s thick hair. The dirt is enough for us both to brave the freezing temperatures of the lake for a swim. We party in the white night and Dolly skips around taking pictures until she can last no longer.

Louise and Dolly near Big Ben Cabin. Photo: Grant Harder

Day eight

We arrive at Big Ben Cabin and the men agree that Dolly, Frances, Patricia and I can sleep on the bunks. It feels like we’re at the Dorchester. We make our last meal on the stove – steaks eaten by candlelight around a proper table. I realise with a jolt that we are leaving in the morning. I put the thought out of my mind.

Day nine

At 9am a helicopter is due to arrive to take Dolly and me to Whitehorse airport, where we will begin the journey home. The expedition will continue for three days without us, but everybody is up to wave us off. We say goodbye to our horses. I will miss solid, dependable Arkan. As Dolly and I walk to the field where the helicopter is due to land we cannot look at one another, we don’t want to leave. We hear the whir of the helicopter’s blades and it comes into view. It lands, and as our luggage is loaded we kiss everybody goodbye. We fly over the mountains and the forests and the rivers that we have crossed so arduously for days. Tears stream down our faces, but we are not sad – just very, very moved.

Louise Carpenter travelled with Unicorn Trails (01767-600606; unicorntrails.com). This 12-night riding holiday starts at £1925 pp, not including flights. Air Canada flights from London Heathrow to Whitehorse via Vancouver start at about £1250 pp